by Tyan Wyss
“I released him just before I came here.”
“It’s high time you did something right.”
“Anthony must have finally snapped,” said Richard heavily. “I never really believed he’d pop off Thad.”
“I never thought it would come to this. While I can’t say I’m sorry the bastard’s dead, it must have been an awful way to die. I appreciate you trying to protect me, but you can’t shield me any longer. Thad was a horribly flawed man, and Anthony must have finally had enough. And Richard, dear, you’ve got to come to terms with the fact that our relationship was over years ago.”
“We could have made it, Trish, if you’d just given it a chance. I always thought . . . hoped . . . that maybe we could get back together if my wife and I got divorced. It’s not too late.”
Trish Fisher was a strong woman and used her incredible fortitude now. “I was wrong to cheat on my husband with you, Richard. At that time, I didn’t care because he was out with any woman whose skirt he could lift. But that’s all in the past. I’ve found a new man now, and I’m going to start over as soon as this all dies down”
“It doesn’t have to come out.”
“Oh, pleez! Use the brains God gave you!” she said sharply. “Blackmail always returns to bite the blackmailer in the butt. You know it, and I know it. My husband had a black heart and hung around the Montanari boys a little too much in the old days and became just like them. Sooner or later, the truth’s coming out. That Fox woman is a tenacious one—if she doesn’t already know the truth, she’ll ferret it out; that I can guarantee you.”
“Goddamn Fox. Every time she comes into the picture, my life gets screwed up.”
“Answer me truly, Richard. Did you want the wrong man convicted of the crime?”
Richard hung his head. He had always been one to seek the easiest way out. “No,” he mumbled.
“You know, Richard, I always suspected Thad killed that poor girl Ashley years ago, and after that he was out of my heart and my bed. I may have done him an injustice, but I still know he was somehow involved in her death. I need the truth to finally come out—all of it!”
“What a goddamn mess!”
“Now that Charlie’s been found, you’ve got to force Anthony to come clean as well, because if he doesn’t, I will.”
“I’ll call him tonight,” said Richard heavily.
“I’m leaving this town as soon as everything is settled. You might think about relocating as well, since our days are finished here. We need to pass the reins over to a new generation.” Trish Fisher straightened her stole. She hesitated before leaving, giving Richard Rollins a soft peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, Richard, but you haven’t done well by anyone by protecting Anthony.”
“Please, Trish.”
“Don’t phone me again, Richard. Nancy never found out. I’d like to keep it that way.”
She scurried off, leaving Richard standing forlornly as the moths and night insects fluttered furiously around the street lamp. Finally, he straightened his tired back and headed towards his car. As he passed their hiding place, Richard turned his head towards the darkening sky slowly becoming encrusted with pinpricks of light that gave just enough illumination to reveal the single tear trickling down the police chief’s cheek.
Nick and Roger waited until the chief’s car took off.
“So, now what?” asked Roger tiredly.
They sat in the cherry-red Mustang indecisively until Nick’s cell sounded.
“Inspector Thayne, this is Randy Phelps.” The rookies’ voice rang high and light, as if he were in an excited whirl.
“What is it, Phelps?”
“It’s about Charlie.”
“Charlie—you mean Bouncer.”
“Yeah, the dwarf. Mrs. Neil from Waterford called. They managed to settle him down, and he was playing with some cars and all. I guess Mrs. Neil started asking him his name, and you know what he said?”
The kid was a master of suspense. “Well what?”
“Bouncer. Bouncer Cimey. He started chanting it over and over again. Mrs. Waterford called, sounding confused because she was under the perception his last name was Murdock. So I went to the holding pen to see Mr. Murdock, and he refused to verify it one way or another, so I think it must be true.”
“You’ve been a big help, Randy. No trace on the girl?”
“None, sir, but I’ll keep trying. Ruth Montanari is in San Diego at some sort of interior designer’s convention and doesn’t answer her cell phone.”
“Keep trying with Mrs. Montanari and look up Cimey in the state birth records, and call me as soon as you find something.” He disconnected and peered at Roger. “Let’s head to Chester Street. I’m worried about Fox, and I’d like to take another look at both the Collins and Simms houses; there’s something that bothers me about the whole setup. So, Bouncer’s last name is not Murdock. This is the key, Roger.”
Roger squinted at this wristwatch. “Oh, go ahead. I’ll be up shit creek already once Susan discovers I’m not home. I might as well bury myself in the stuff.”
“I like your attitude, Chung!”
“Just wait til you get married, you heartless bastard.”
Chapter 24
Nick screeched up in front of the Collins house. Fox’s car was gone.
“I guess she’s taken off—and without calling. How typical. Well, since we’re here, I’d like to speak with Mrs. Simms again.”
Nick strode up the cobbled, well-lit pathway to her front door, Roger lagging behind. Even for all Nick’s pounding, it took several long minutes for the shuffling feet of Mrs. Simms to open the door. She peered at them behind her small spectacles.
“May I help you, gentleman? Oh, Inspector Thayne. How nice to see you again. And who are you?” She adjusted her glasses and peered intently at him.
“I’m Roger Chung from the Monroe PD.”
“You’re the one who had that terrible attack.”
“Yes, of appendicitis.”
“And does your family know you’re out gallivanting around in your condition?”
“Um . . . yes.” Roger lied. “I’m perfectly fine now.”
“Hum. You could use some chamomile tea. That’ll put you back into sorts. Come in, come in.”
The pair followed the scarecrow-thin senior citizen into the impressive foyer. Roger whistled admiringly as Mrs. Simms beamed.
“We were wondering if Inspector Fox paid you a visit this afternoon?” asked Nick, more concerned about Fox than Mrs. Simms’ lovely home.
“Your young crippled partner? Yes, she was here. In such a hurry, though. Didn’t want any tea.” Mrs. Simms appeared indignant.
“About what time was that?” asked Nick
“Maybe four or five. It was still afternoon—not dusk. Maybe five-thirty. Oh, I just don’t remember.” She appeared momentarily confused. Nick noticed a lovely pale salmon orchid setting on a low oriental table with beautifully carved legs. “I just brought that in today,” said Mrs. Simms proudly, noting the direction of his gaze. “Isn’t it lovely? Yesterday, it was just a bud and now it’s bloomed.”
The flower’s stamen, resembling a small tongue, edged out of the interior of the delicate blossom. Nick and Roger followed Mrs. Simms into the elaborate living room, the high ceilings of which emphasized the chamber’s pleasant use of space and style.
“Detective Fox asked you some questions, I take it?”
“She certainly did. She was very interested in my greenhouse. Said there was some connection between the greenhouse and Philemon.”
“Philemon Jenkins?” asked Roger, leaning down to sniff the flower.
“It doesn’t have a scent, Officer. Yes, my gardener.” Mrs. Simms led them into a beautiful sitting room whose ebony grand piano sat dustless and quiet. “Please sit down, gentlemen. I don’t get much company.” Roger sank down gratefully upon the plush blue couch and unashamedly hoisted his feet up on the matching ottoman.
“Did she men
tion what the connection was?” Thayne wasn’t about to mention that Philemon had been released earlier that evening.
“Ms. Fox was certain now that my gardener—though I find this very difficult to believe—had actually killed the ex-mayor. I told her I didn’t believe it even though the police had confiscated some tools that they said had Philemon’s fingerprints. I told her, just like I told that sweet young officer on Saturday, that of course his fingerprints were on it. He’s my gardener, after all, and a wonderful gardener at that.”
“Does Philemon ever do any work inside your greenhouse?”
“Only sometimes. The orchids in there are my own personal pets, but he’s quite interested, and a quick learner. Philemon is a whiz in the garden. He does a wonderful job of taking care of my hydrangeas.” Mrs. Simms leaned closer as if sharing a trade secret. “He sprinkles just enough acid fertilizer on the roots to insure the deepest purple blooms possible. I’ve never had that great luck of with them until Philemon started work. I told Ms. Fox that she was entirely incorrect about him.”
“Did she relate the events from this morning at the house across the street?”
“Events?”
“A young retarded man, who is also extremely handicapped, was discovered living there with his caretaker.”
“She didn’t say a thing! Why, that’s impossible. I’ve lived here for years, and I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that no one resides there.”
“But didn’t you report a sewage problem earlier this year?”
“Why, yes. Philemon said there was often an awful stench coming from the rear of the house. The city indicated it was probably a broken sewage line.”
“And you didn’t hear the commotion this morning?”
She tapped her ear. “My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Oh, and I went out for some groceries mid-morning. I must have missed it.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t relate the incident to you.”
Mrs. Simms held up a thin hand. “Ms. Fox was probably going to tell me but got a phone call right in the midst of our conversation.”
She teetered daintily upon the corner of an East Africa pili-pili bed covered by a rich burgundy Afghan rug. The room was amazing in how it blended warm Western couches with more exotic pieces from all around the world. Next to her sat several Polynesian woodcarvings of sea turtles, which Nick knew represented good luck.
“I see,” he said. “Do you know who initiated the call?”
“Ah, let me think. Yes I believe she said, ‘Hello, Mr. Cambridge. Are you holding fast?’”
“Luke Cambridge,” repeated Nick under his breath. “So, what did she do then?”
“Well, she left so abruptly, saying he had some crucial information for her. I think she said she was going to drive down to Modesto. But it was going to be dark soon. Driving at night is such a strain on the eyes, and I told her so. And she didn’t even look at the greenhouse. I have a Coelogyne rhodeana that just came into bloom and wanted to show it to her.”
“She mentioned nothing else?”
“Oh, she did. Just as she was leaving, Ms. Fox actually mentioned that you might stop by, and then it happened.” Mrs. Simms appeared genuinely reluctant to continue.
Roger’s ears pricked up. “And what was that?”
“She was in such a hurry that, well, she slipped on the tiles and fell. I was so dreadfully appalled, but when I tried to help her up she seemed rather . . . indignant.”
“She slipped and fell?” exclaimed Roger. “Was she hurt?”
“Oh, I think it might just have been her pride—you know, because of her foot and all—but anyway, her cell phone fell and broke into five or six pieces. I helped her pick it up, but she was swearing under her breath. So unladylike.”
Roger bit his lip to keep from smiling. Somehow that didn’t surprise him at all.
Nick seemed less amused. “So, you’re certain she got a phone call from someone named Cambridge and then took off?”
“Yes. I watched her walk right out the door and get into her car. It was a little Mazda.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“You know, I suggested that she take her phone into the mobile repair center right near the mall. I’ve heard some fine things about those people. As she was leaving, I told her she was all wrong about Philemon, and that I was thinking of posting his bail. I know he’s innocent.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Nick vaguely. “I was wondering if Detective Chung and I could check out your greenhouse?”
Mrs. Simms looked mildly surprised before brightening. “Of course. I have some lovely flowers in bloom. Please, come along, but do watch your step as it’s gotten quite dark.”
They followed the elderly woman into the brightly lit greenhouse where a couple dozen orchids bloomed exotically. Mrs. Simms pointed to some of the tools hanging on the wall. The shovel looked clean and bright.
“I remember now why she wanted to visit my greenhouse. Ms. Fox said she wanted to see this shovel. Said something about the curvature of this end part here, that she suspected it might have been used by Philemon to cut off the ex-mayor’s ring finger. I told her she was absolutely barking up the wrong tree, that she had her facts all mixed up. It was all so peculiar. She’s an odd one, she is.”
“You can say that again,” murmured Nick. Mrs. Simms turned, obviously expecting Roger and Nick to follow her. Roger did so obediently, but Nick lingered, looking along the broad benches of the spacious greenhouse. At the far end, a broken pot littered the wooden slat floor.
“Did you have an accident, Mrs. Simms?”
Mrs. Simms turned around. “What’s that, young man?”
“I notice you have a broken pot down here.”
“Oh, I dropped it. It’s my rheumatism.” She held up stubby fingers to show him. “I’m finding it harder and harder to take care of my orchids.” She led the pair away from the humid greenhouse and down a pathway made of circular steppingstones. “I just hope I don’t have to get rid of them, but I have to face facts. This old house, the orchids, and plants are all just too much for me. I dread moving into a smaller place or accepting that nonsense they call assisted living. I won’t let that happen to me.”
Roger nodded half-heartedly, his mind elsewhere. Mrs. Simms was offended. “Don’t scoff, young man. It can happen to you. Before you know it, you’re in your sixties and poof, the body refuses to cooperate with the mind. You start falling apart.”
“These are indeed lovely roses,” Nick said, hoping to calm her. It worked.
“Oh, yes. While my orchids of course are my pride and joy, my other favorite flowers are roses. That’s a Mr. Lincoln. Though you can’t really see the hybrid teas well in this light, they bloom a bright, crimson red and are quite fragrant. You should come back sometime during daylight and visit me for tea. Bring Ms. Fox back when she isn’t in such a hurry. I do enjoy having company so.”
Nick smiled and leaned towards the rose bush, taking a deep whiff of the pungent blooms.
“I love your garden,” stated Roger, nearly out of breath.
Mrs. Simms shook an arthritic finger at him. “Thank you, but you need to be in bed, young man.” She shifted her gaze to Thayne. “I suggest you take him home right now.”
Nick straightened and turned abruptly. “You’re absolutely right Mrs. Simms. Come on, Roger, let’s go. You’ve played hooky from your sick bed long enough for one evening. I’ll drop you off, and if I’m lucky, catch Fox on her way down to Modesto. Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Simms.” Instead of returning through the house, the senior citizen led them through a side gate.
“Please come back and visit. I’ll make you some of my famous toffee.”
“Will do,” said Nick pleasantly and headed towards his car. The gate clanged shut, the shuffle of Mrs. Simms’ retreating feet echoing in the cooling night air. They were nearly to his Mustang when
Thayne’s cell phone vibrated. It was Officer Phelps, who was breathless as usual.
“I think I found the connection. Listen to this, Inspector Thayne. Edward Lawrence Murdock is the youngest son of Jane and Stanley Murdock, who had three children. His two older sisters’ names are Edith and Margaret. Margaret is deceased but Edith . . . Edith married a man by the name of John Simms. Her daughter’s name was Delilah Simms, and she died in childbirth in 1972.”
“So, Mrs. Simms is Murdock’s older sister?”
“I’d lay odds on it,” Randy continued. “You know, about that Charlie. He was really hard to understand, so I got to thinking and I called Mrs. Neil again, asking if he might have meant Simms, not Cimey. She said it was likely, considering his lack of mature vocalization, as she called it.”
“That’s it!” cried Nick. “Charlie is Delilah Simms’ son; the child of her rape. You get Anthony Montanari on the horn right now and ask him what he knows about a Miss Delly and her relationship to his sons.”
“Will do,” said Randy, disconnecting.
“I need fluid,” said Roger leaning against the car and breathing heavily. He opened the door and grabbed his water bottle out of the passenger seat, fumbling for his medication. He took two tablets in loud gulps.
Nick watched his friend for a long time. Roger was sweating even though it wasn’t that hot. Finally he spoke so quietly Roger could barely discern his whisper,
“Steven Koh suggested the murderer was someone you would least suspect. Who, in their right mind, would be wary of a feeble old lady like Mrs. Simms?”
Roger straightened. “Do you have the number of the Modesto Penitentiary?”
Less than five minutes later, Roger disconnected his cell. “Luke Cambridge never phoned Lea.”
“Then I was right. Take a look at this, Roger.” Nick reached into his coat pocket and produced a worn, red rubber ball.
“That’s exactly like the ball Philemon said he used to play with Bouncer. Where’d you get it?”
“I just found it in Mrs. Simms’ yard, near the rose bush. When I leaned down to smell the flowers, I retrieved the toy and placed it into my pocket while you were chatting with her. At the time, I just suspected maybe it was one Philemon had dropped accidentally.”